


In Search of a Consort

by knockingthrush



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Erebor Never Fell, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, I mean it, I'll add more as this progresses, Kind of Soulmate AU, M/M, Pre-Quest, Pre-The Hobbit, Slow Burn, first fic so I have no idea what tags to put, mmmm i love making headcannons about middle earth cultures
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-17 15:02:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16098086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knockingthrush/pseuds/knockingthrush
Summary: This story is set about eighteen years before The Hobbit. All dwarven settlements are thriving. Thorin is going to take the throne someday, and Thráin feels that a king is nothing without someone ruling beside him. So, he sends his son on a long diplomatic trip in an attempt to find someone suitable enough. Nobody expects a hobbit to get involved!I had to make educated guesses about things like geography, scenery, and mileage of Middle Earth.Enjoy!





	In Search of a Consort

Thráin does his best.

His leadership skills stem from his parents. While Thrór and Lodís are not living any more, words of wisdom and advice through being raised by them still run frequently through his mind, guiding his everyday decisions far beyond their two lifespans.

The Lonely Mountain is prosperous and opulent from his efforts.

His wife and his children are happy, as are his subjects and beautiful grandchildren (though they were crafted too early. Far, far too early for any proper dwarf to have children, but that argument with his daughter has since been settled).

Thráin’s efforts are comprehensive. The king’s hands are meticulous in turning the gears of this synchronized community, every dwarf has their place, every place has a job, every job has payment, and every payment goes back to the gold hoard eventually. Every child is raised right, every signature is written aptly, and every cog within the machine that is this mountain is well oiled.

But he is getting old.

Well, truth be told, 207 is not a terribly ancient age! He’s still got a spring in his step, a spry attitude, and a good many years ahead of him!

But he must consider the future of his kingdom, whether change be coming soon or not.

His wife has assisted him throughout his rule--he must admit that he would be far behind without her guidance. Frís is a strong and lovely woman, and has provided him strong and lovely children (who sometimes made mistakes, but that is only natural).

Dís, his youngest child and only daughter, is a gem of the mountain. Not unlike the Arkenstone, she shines with millions of facets, and brings color to every conversation. Her face and build are like her fathers’, as is her hair, but her nose is her mother’s.

Her husband Víli is a good sort. It took time, but the royal family came to warm up to him and accept him as Dis’ spouse. And, of course, he helped carve two boys with the princess. Fíli and Kíli remind Thráin of his own sons, in many ways of their actions and mannerisms.

Frerin is the middle child of Thráin and has always been the most rambunctious. He is the spitting image of his mother, in looks and personality (personality when she was younger, anyways). He has her frizzy blonde hair (though Frís’ is looking more white these days).

Thorin, his first son and the heir to the throne, has shaped up to be a fine dwarrow indeed. He is handsome in build-- face shaped like his mother, but with his father’s beak nose and healthy dark hair. He is intelligent and ready in helping his father run this great kingdom.

Despite how perfect life is for every dwarf in the Lonely Mountain, Thráin looks at his wife and realizes that there is one thing missing. Just one miniscule detail; a little hole to be filled, nothing more! A small rupture, a little crack, a squeaky hinge in his home. It is only one eensy _teensy_ predicament, but it needs to be solved promptly.

Once upon a time, Thorin II, son of Thráin, was as jovial as any, but years ago his quick wit dimmed at his grandfather’s passing and never quite returned; he seems to be an oft solemn sort, and usually focuses on his work and not much more. His shell can be cracked and smiles coaxed, but more often than not he prefers his own solitude.

Which is why Thráin, Thrór’s son, King Under the Mountain, is on this fine day in late May, now standing pensively in front of the shut door to his first son’s rooms, staring at the ornate stone entrance as if it will provide answers to him. His eventual knock is an effort on his part, and three slow heartbeats pass before he hears a nonchalant “Enter” reply from inside.

At creaking open the door, Thráin is greeted to a gust of fresh spring air flowing in from the open balcony of the receiving rooms. Thorin is at his desk, working of course, but he stands and gives a bow upon Thráin’s impromptu appearance.

“Good afternoon, father,” Thorin starts first, with a polite smile and a tilt of a head that really questions, _'what do you want?’._ “I was reviewing the shipment orders from Dale, as you requested,” he continues. “Everything appears to be in order. Do you require them now? I can-”

“Sit down, son.” Thráin interrupts. He strides over and wraps an arm around Thorin's shoulder, leading him to sit on a couch. “How is my eldest doing?” the king asks, with a hopefully easy and innocuous smile. He discerns the tired purple underneath his child’s eyes, and the unwashed hair accompanying it. Does he take care of himself enough?

Suspicion is obvious on Thorin’s face, despite how he may try to mask it in an attempt to also appear anodyne. “I am… well,” he states. “I have been working as normal.”

“Such facts are a given. You are _always_ working.” Thráin quirks his brow.

Thorin squints but smiles, slight. “I often enjoy going hunting.”  
  
“Once a month!” Thráin jibes. “And you trip for two days maximum; that is hardly worth labeling as a break from work.”

Thorin wracks his mind for a moment. The two have had this talk a thousand times before, and Thorin is attempting to concoct evidence to support his point of view. “Later I am going to spar with Frerin,” the prince says, implying that a simple spar is plenty enough abeyance from duties. He scratches behind his ear, thinking. “And I will help plan the celebrations, which is an enjoyable task. Arrangements for Dís’ husband’s nameday feast are running smoothly, so far.”

“Speaking of husbands!” Thráin starts, causing Thorin to jump. “That is what I came to chat with you about, if you have the moment.” Though of course, Thorin really has no say in whether he has a spare moment or not, and he is surely aware of that.

“Indeed?” Thorin’s eyebrows raise. “Víli is a good match for her. I thought you have since come around to like him as well. That whole issue was resolved nearly fifty years ago.”

Thráin twiddles his thumbs. How purposefully oblivious his child is! “Víli is a member of our family. That is not who I was referring to.”

Thorin is silent for a moment, before leaning in close. “Is Frerin-?”

“No.” Thráin cuts in. He tilts his head, and shoots Thorin a _look_ . _The_ look. The look to convey the direction that this conversation is going--towards _that_ conversation. The one that has caused tensions and anger and sometimes days of ignoring each other. _That_ one. Thorin bites the inside of his cheek and shifts in his seat, wary, and more than likely certainly hoping this conversation is not about to move in the direction that both know it is.

“I do not know what you speak of then,” Thorin replies finally, tactful and resolutely pretending to be unknowledgeable. The use of the strategy would be admirable, if not for the fact that Thráin was the one who taught Thorin it in the first place, and if not for the fact that Thorin was attempting it against his own father.

Thráin sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. Time to be candid, then. He clears his throat, sits up straight, and clasps a hand over one of his son’s.

“Thorin, you are one hundred ten years old. Your life ahead is still long and fruitful.”

“Yes,” Thorin concedes, still wary.

“And it will only be a few years before I soon become too old to rule, and you will take the throne.”  
  
Thorin huffs. “A ‘few years’ is a poor descriptor and an understatement, but yes.”

“Son, I do not wish for you to be lonely when you rule.”

There is a pause then. The hesitant acceptance of the fact that the statement was just said, as it has been said by Thráin in varying ways many times before. “I will not be _lonely_.” Thorin replies then, in a quiet and calm rebuttal. He looks off into the empty fireplace in front of them, taking his hand back for himself. “I will have my family and companions beside me."

Thráin shifts. “You know the true meaning behind my words--do not try to reconfigure them. Having your family and allies to support you and having someone beside you in marriage are entirely separate things. Thorin, I all I wish is for you to have _both_. What is a king without a companion?”

Thorin grimaces and breathes in through his teeth. He slouches and puts his head in one hand, hair falling off his shoulder in a pitch curtain.

\---

Of _course_ his father would attempt to speak of this again. Betrothals and marriage and other ridiculous scenes of useless situations and relationships! How horrible a conversation to have! As if his leadership will not be good enough alone? As if he _has_ to have someone akin to an advisor who he happens to be wed to!

“You act as if I have delivered a death sentence,” Thráin chirps, obtuse to the fact that Thorin feels like hearing the sentence _was_ , in a way, akin to death.

Thorin runs his hand down his face before standing and striding out onto his balcony, seeking a moment, a slight respite, from this onslaught of frustration. Seeking to keep his head on tight and diplomatically. He lets his eyes shut and focuses on deep breathing and the chill air of the high altitude swirling through his chest.

Creaking open his eyes again to return to the world, he registers his father’s approach beside him, but ignores it as one would a persistent stray cat on their porch. He opts to stare out at the landscape instead of address this conversation. Every tree is flowering, if it has not already finished, or it is a type to not flower at all. The river flows out from the mountain base, cutting a clear and sparkling path through green. Dale stands proud and bright, and it can be assumed that it is busy, as it always is so.

“You know I am averse to such things,” Thorin states finally. Snow from a late spring fall still remains in patches, and he wipes the fluffy ice off his balcony rail as if that is interesting him at the moment.

Thráin begins, “If you would only listen--”  
  
“I am not _keen_ on listening.” Thorin states, not tearing his gaze from the ranges far, far away. “I already have heirs, and I will rule the kingdom just as well without a spouse.”

“Thorin, I am sending you _out_.” The king speaks stern and resolved, sharp and angry, as a father no longer willing to put up with a defiant child.

The prince starts preparations of a reply, but is halted to process the unexpected words. This is something new in their routine; usually the conversation dissolves into more frustration and banter and no foreseeable ending; it is dropped on the floor to be picked up another day. But this... Thorin turns to his father in confusion. “I beg your pardon? What does _that_ detail?”

Thráin smiles, self satisfied to have broken their routine. His voice is matter-of-fact, and perhaps even rehearsed. “You are going on a little… quest. If you wish to call it that. Get out of the mountain, son. Get some fresh air!” He stops, takes in his child’s appearance from his boots to his eyes. “You’re pale, Thorin. You used to be a fine adventurous lad--to my annoyance--but now you do nothing but work! So… this trip will be an opportunity for both. Work and adventure, I mean.”

“Father-”  
  
“Have you ever even considered that the someone you might want to marry may not be in Erebor?”

Once again Thorin is silent at the assertion and finds himself for a lack of reply. His mind begins to work in a nervous rush then, thinking about what all of this means for the future, wondering what lies ahead in his father’s plans and how much he will actually go through with. Thorin looks off the balcony once more. “You wish for me to go to the Iron Hills?”

“Sure!” Thráin says, a canny gleam in his eye as if he believes he is winning this dilemma. “But not just! Go to the Red Mountains! Go to Gondor! Go to _Khazad-dûm_ ! The Blue Mountains! Rivendell! Go to damned _Bree_ ! Just _go_ , son! See the world!” The king gestures widely to the landscape far away and pants, out of breath, as if he has just revealed a giant plan he’s been holding onto for a great span of time (which, it can be assumed, he has).

Thorin stares, wide-eyed. He’s being made to leave... For how long? Where? When? Why? He opens his mouth to say something, but, after realizing he can come up with nothing, shuts it again.

Thráin sighs at his son’s expression and scoots a little closer, resting his elbows on the railing and looking out at the view. “It is not that I do not want you here,” he starts. “I do. I love you, and will miss you something terrible. But this will be a good opportunity to establish better relations with other areas as _well_ as find a consort. I was around your age when I took a trip to meet all of the other clans. It is time for you to do so as well.”

Thorin stays silent.

“Your eyes have always looked West. Ever since you were but a little pebble, you have dreamed of travel. I feel you are drawn for a reason.” He stops. “Or _to_ a reason. A someone that you may find on your journey?”

Thorin sighs and runs a hand down his face .

“I do not know what to tell you, other than I have been planning this for quite some time. I would go with you if I could, but I am old and the mountain needs me here. You must go out to see the world on your own, and fall in love on the way."

Thorin puts a hand on his forehead and takes a deep breath. “You want me to _leave_ ,” he speaks finally, as if only now understanding everything that is being told to him.

“I do not _want_ you to leave,” Thráin corrects. “I only want to do what is best for you and the kingdom.” He wiggles a finger in his ear.

Thorin ponders down at his hands for a moment. “I have never been further than the Iron Hills. You want me to go across all of _Middle Earth_ ?”

“Of course not!” Thráin chuckles. “You will not go so far into the east past Orocarni, or so far in the south past Gondor, or so far in the west past Ered Luin.”

“Who will accompany me?”

Thráin shrugs. “That is mostly up to you, but I would recommend no more than two companions.”

“And…” Thorin starts, hesitant. “What if I refuse?”  
  
Thráin shoots him a look that says _‘you wouldn’t_ _dare_ ’.

Thorin sighs, accepting his fate. He takes only a moment to collect himself, before he stands up straight and puts back on his formal demeanor and expression of stone. He swallows hard, reluctant to accept these events but knowing he must obey his father. The trip was always inevitable, but… when half of the reason for travel is a useless one, the idea is unappealing at best.

“When do I leave?” Thorin asks.

Perhaps this will be good for him. His father is usually wise in his planning, and he _has_ always wanted to travel. But not for the purpose of searching for a consort! Work is his first and only love, and he will forever stand by that. Despite it, travelling would be a smart political move, for forming allies or trade or other such things.

But… this is all so _sudden_!

“You have three months to prepare,” Thráin says. “You will go to the Iron Hills first. Then travel to Orocarni, and all the way through and down, before going over the Sea of Rhûn to Dorwinion. You do not have to make great relations with the mannish, but I recommend and would prefer it, seeing as our closest southern trade partners are men. From there you will travel to Lorien, then go to Minas Tirith, up to Edoras, past the Fords of Isen, to _Khazad-dûm_. And then go up some more then west to Ered Luin, then back east to that little Shire place. Then go to Bree, to Rivendell, to the Elvenking, to Laketown, to Dale, then back here.” Thráin smiles, as if it is all very simple.

Thorin is only confused by the many places spoken of and hangs his head to think at the plains below. He has to, what, entertain with elves? Be merry with men? He would not mind so much just being diplomatic with dwarves, but having to be intermediary between his father and every leader of every race that he can think of is a whole other issue.

“I have a map, if you wish to see,” Thráin adds placatingly, sensing Thorin’s growing dissatisfaction.

Thorin slowly nods, and Thráin rummages for the folded parchment in his pocket. Retrieving it, he unfurls the map and hands it over. Thorin’s path is marked in red, and every important stop is circled. It has a panhandle to the east that turns back west, before making a scoop down, then up along the Misty Mountains, then out far west, before returning to the Lonely Mountain. The prince examines it with a disapproving eye.

“And what if I do not succeed?” Thorin asks quiet, suddenly feeling like a tiny speck compared to the road ahead. “What if I only make foreign matters worse?”

Thráin pats him on the shoulder. “That will not happen. You are intelligent and wise beyond your years, as I have raised you to be. You know how to handle others. I am giving you this task now because I _know_ that you will succeed.”

“And…” Thorin now directs his voice at the ground in a disquiet mumble. “How will I know if I happen upon finding the person I wish to marry?” He makes a perturbed expression as he crosses his arms and stares off at some birds flying in the distance.

Thráin laughs, warm, giving Thorin’s shoulder a fatherly squeeze. “Well, when I saw your mother for the first time, it felt like a spark ignited in my heart.” He sighs, dreamily. “And when we spoke, my insides felt all warm like. I thought it was indigestion!” The king chuckles.

“ _Indigestion_.” Thorin deadpans. He sighs at his father’s eager nod and rubs his beard. “And if I find there is no One for me?”

Thráin takes a small breath to prepare his next words; he was expecting that question, then. “Well...” He strokes his beard. “Then you will, of course, be arranged with someone beneficial to the kingdom. A king is no good without a partner behind him, as I stated before.”

Thorin’s breath catches, and he stares at his father in hopes for a jest, a joke, a jab… for surely he doesn’t mean that. He must be making some humor that falls short, or some gag to lighten the mood… but there is no clue from his father’s expression or tone of voice that he is anything less than serious. He said it as if the choice was something menial; a small duty and nothing more.

Thorin lets out the breath he he was holding. He tugs at the ends of his shirt sleeves, not wishing to make eye contact with Thráin at the moment. He gulps, trying to find his tongue again. “I... see,” is all his mouth is able to conjure.

“You better begin preparations now,” Thrain says, finalizing the decision so they can move forward with it.

“Yes,” Thorin agrees, though he is reluctant to do so.

The prince wonders which is worse: finding someone that you are just _okay_ with marrying (because of course he has no true match), or being _arranged_ to marry someone?

Well. He will have to wait and see, won’t he?

****

Thorin’s preparations begin promptly. His first step in the many to come is finding who he desires to accompany him. The choice is easily apparent, as he knows just the dwarrow for the job. The only one that he would ever want to stick by his side for a journey such as this.

If he has to suffer this task, then his good cousin, shield-brother to the end, and number one confidant can too.

Thorin finds Dwalin, son of Fundin, on a balcony near the royal guard’s hall. He’s sitting on a bench, sharpening his axes (though he never gets to use them much outside of sparring) and eating lunch at the same time. He smiles at Thorin’s presence, and motions for him to join him in the seat beside, but doesn’t heed him after that.

“May we have a word?” Thorin begins, attempting to appear carefree but knowing he will inevitably betray his falsely untroubled demeanor.

Dwalin gives pause and looks up then, raising an eyebrow. “Or two words, by the tone you delivered that in.” He props his weapons up on the side of the bench and shifts a bit, getting comfortable by crossing one leg so that his ankle is resting on his knee. He clasps his hands together, patient. “Carry on, then.”

“I have a request.” Thorin says, slowly as he lowers himself onto the vacant seat he was offered.

Dwalin grins. “Want assistance raiding the kitchens again? I know just the dwarf. Hint. It’s me.” He nudges Thorin, who is not often in such a dreary mood around him.

Thorin shakes his head, but a smile grows on his face, and his tensions ebb somewhat. “No. This is more important than that.”

Dwalin’s smile fades, and he leans in closer, putting on a grave air. “Do you need me to, uh…” Dwalin gives a half shrug, and then drags a finger along his neck and makes a noise with his mouth, indicating slicing someone’s throat.

Thorin grins and shakes his head. He pinches the bridge of his nose, exasperated. “Dwalin. No. This is a serious matter.”

Dwalin raises his eyebrows, and comes out of his leisurely stance to one more proper. He tilts his head at Thorin, waiting for him to continue.

Thorin straightens and clears his throat. “I trust you. And I believe you are the only dwarf fit to come alongside me. We are going to go on a journey, if you accept.”  
  
Dwalin’s eyebrows raise. “A journey, eh? To Dale, perhaps? You know those cheap scarves they sell out there aren’t worth the time.”

Thorin shakes his head, braids swinging like two small pendulums framing his face. “Further than that.”

Dwalin squints. “The… Iron Hills? Do you have business there? I will go, sure.”

“Um.”  
  
“Even _further_?” Dwalin asks with a bewildered look. “Would you care to explain?”

Thorin takes in a deep breath, looking down at his hands and fiddling with the rings on his fingers. It’s not a tic that he does often--he was disciplined out of it--but sometimes he cannot help himself. He takes a deep breath to ready himself, and then...

“My father wishes for me to travel and establish good relations with other influential figures around a good portion of Middle Earth and also perhaps find a spouse while I am at it and I know it will be a tedious journey but I trust that you will be the only and most suitable companion for it and-”

Dwalin holds up his hands and guffaws. “Hold on a moment!” he cries. “You say it as if that breath was your last! Now, what do you speak of?” He leans back into his seat. “Your father wants you to travel as a diplomat and seek out a _spouse_?”

Thorin clears his throat. “Well. You make it sound simple in that phrasing. I am… not overmuch worried about the political aspect.”

“So, what if you don’t find one then? A-” Dwalin waves his hand in the air- “consort, or what you wish to call it.”

Thorin grinds his teeth. “He will make _arrangements_.”

Dwalin slaps his knee. “Ha! He’ll marry you to twiggy, bald, ugly _dame_!”

Thorin hits him, and Dwalin shrugs it off with a laugh.

“So, you want me to come with you?” Dwalin asks, as if it is so simple. “When do we leave? And where are we going?”

Thorin searches in a pocket and unfolds the map his father gave to him. “Here is the path. We have three months to prepare.”

Dwalin examines it and whistles, low. “This will take some time.”  
  
“I am aware,” Thorin grumbles.

“Well. You better find a sweetheart along the way.”

Thorin huffs. “I cannot do that. I do not _do_ ‘sweethearts’. And I will not _be_ ‘falling in love’.”

“Perhaps you don’t have to,” Dwalin proposes. “Merely find someone who is important and willing enough to marry a rich dwarven prince. Ensure that they are loyal, and can be a trusted friend, and will be wise in helping you run a kingdom. It won’t be as if you two have to be intimate. Let them have all the mistresses and misters they want. It will be close to a loveless arrangement, but instead it will be _you_ making the choice of who--likely a friend, rather than a stranger your father chooses.” Dwalin shrugs, but laughs again as Thorin’s face lights up.

“Dwalin, you may be onto something.”

“Of course I am.”  
  
Thorin stands. “If I make good relations with someone willing enough to live in the Mountain...” He begins to pace.

“And even then they could travel home as much as they want,” Dwalin adds.

“Yes!” Thorin bounces on his feet a bit. “This may just work.”

“Though if they can bear children, you will be expected to do _that_.”

Thorin grimaces. His heirship has already been appointed to his sister-sons, thank you. “Ah. Well. I will choose someone who cannot, then.”

“Get a man!” Dwalin says with a grin. “They live very short lives. Let him die of illness or something.”  
  
Thorin snorts. “Dwalin, you are abhorrent.” He flips some hair over his shoulder before rubbing his hands together in triumph. “Alright! This sounds like a better plan than before. This will be a vacation for us, then.”

Dwalin stands, and Thorin slings an arm over his shoulder.

“I will miss my family, but not the workload,” Thorin continues. “We will live off the land, and establish good relations and trade…” he muses, mostly to himself, trying to make his attitude positive.

Dwalin pushes off Thorin’s arm. “And catch you a consort.”  
  
Thorin snorts. “You will scare them all off.”  
  
Dwalin only laughs and agrees with that.

Later, Thráin is very glad to see his son in lighter spirits after consulting Dwalin. He takes his time to craft and send letters to the many houses Thorin is expected to visit during his travels. Thráin states reasons for the visit and hopes of good relations, and requests acceptance of the visits.

In total, priming and tying loose ends takes five months, due to procrastination on mostly Thorin’s part. The first two flew by with no development, and then suddenly the realization that the trip is tangible and upcoming speedily hit him in the face. All of Thorin’s duties are placed on his younger brother Frerin (though Dís would be much better suited for it, in his opinion).

Thorin and Dwalin approach different guilds for advice and supplies over time. They are given two ponies and a covered wagon filled with imperishable foods and money, and several changes of clothes--three each, including the ones they wear when they leave; two for travel, and one nice outfit for meeting royalty and such. They have rain cloaks some weapons- knives and swords or the like. They bring hoof picks for their horses, one spare wheel, a hammer and some nails, multiple tinder boxes, and miniature candles.

They carry several water and ale canteens (labeled, for convenience) and nail clippers and files, mini scissors and bandages and soaps and rags, leather ties and hair brushes and hair product, and toothbrushes. They bring handheld mirrors, charcoal, their favorite pillow each, and travel instruments and one notebook with various scribbles of sheet music in it. They carry little tokens from their families or friends--engraved rocks or special notes or otherwise, harboring hopes of good luck and comfortable travel.

Thorin brings his raven Croäk, son of Roäc, as his second travel companion, along with parchment and ink, so that he can send letters home as often as possible. They bring handcrafted gifts that Thorin created over the months--longswords uniquely made for each of the houses they will visit.

Departure day rushes upon them.

After assuring that everything is in place and ready for travel, then comes the exchange of goodbyes and well wishes from loved ones.

Dwalin is sad to part with his brother and friends, but he will come back eventually, and can write letters to them. Thorin will miss his family dearly, and many tears are shed from all. He will miss taking care of his sister, and watching his little nephews (though they aren’t so little anymore). He will probably miss Frerin’s pestering, too. He will certainly miss his father’s guidance and the long chats with his mother.

But he reminds himself that this trip will be beneficial for him.

So it is October 24, T.A. 2922, when Thorin and Dwalin set out of the mountain on an adventure that will certainly change both of them.

Hopefully for the better.

**Author's Note:**

> \--- : Change in POV  
> **** : Change in scene  
>    
> [Here's the path Thorin and Dwalin will take!](https://photos.app.goo.gl/csaRFkBVEzWpkgdj7)  
> (I had to make some edits to dear Tolkien's map :P)
> 
> I hope you enjoyed! This fic is gonna take a while, oh boy...
> 
> There's gonna be a couple more chapters until they reach the Shire! If anyone wants a TL;DR of their travels (I mean like, 10K words of their travels no joke) just say so!
> 
> Find me on tumblr @knockingthrush!


End file.
